


Anopsy

by asuralucier



Series: Bonum Fidei [4]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Also the fruit knife is still here too, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Typical Violence, Everything is water, Friendly Exes, Gen, I don't think either of them know, M/M, Marcus Aurelius, More bad decisions!, Non-Linear Narrative, Or not so exes, We got guns you better run, Winston is understandably very pissed and not amused this time, marcus lives, some JW3 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-04-12 16:10:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19135534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: ”Humor me, all right. Use your head. If we were really gonna do it, how would we?” Marcus is, of course, not asking this to be glib. He means it, and the kid really needs to learn a lesson.“I don’t know,” John shrugs, using his youth and very attractive torso as his first line of defense, “...Haven’t really got that far, I guess we can start by burning the world down. The world as we know it.”The last part of the Marcus lives!AU. Still featuring lots of guns, bad decisions, emotional constipation, the works. (Partsoneandtwolinked for convenience. Please read those if you haven’t already or else this won’t make any sense.)





	1. Get Out

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Part Three, lovelies! 
> 
> Thank you for still being with me...I mean, this thing started because I had suddenly unhealthy feelings for Willem Dafoe that needed to be dealt with and uh. Kind of became its own thing. This probably contains spoilers for JW3 but I'm still iffy on this because given how Biopsy ended, I'm technically only in the middle of JW2. 
> 
> Title taken from an antiquated medical term that means “partial blindness” which is ever so appropriate. The accepted term now is anopsia but I thought I would stick to the theme of -psy-ending words as per the title. 
> 
> A special thank you to @ilylynnbelle for squeeing with me. This would probably still be stuck in development hell if you weren't so keen :).

_”Okay, so we get out. It’s not like we’re hurting for cash or places to go.”_

They bleed each other in turn, but in the end it is only Marcus, who has to contend with -- stew in -- John’s optimism and stupidity inside his head. The thought is perennially present, digging into his synapses like either really unrelentingly bad caffeine laced with speed -- or simply a disease. 

He swings his legs over the side of bed, and then Marcus feels a telling hold around his wrist. 

John says, “Where are you going?” 

“I,” Marcus starts. “I can’t sleep. Might go for a walk.” 

John’s gaze is black and ravenous, even in the dark, “Why?” 

_Because of you, you dick,_ is something that nearly leaves Marcus’s mouth but then it doesn’t, because self-control apparently kicks in at the most inconvenient of times. “Did you mean it?” 

“Mean what?” 

Marcus sucks in a deep breath, “Humor me, all right. Use your head. If we were to do it, how would we? How would we get out?” He is, of course, not asking this to be glib. He means to ask and the kid needs to get it in his head -- the right things, and learn a lesson. 

John is suddenly more awake; he flips over to reach for the light affixed to his side of the bed and Marcus blinks at the sudden brightness, “Do _you_ mean it?” In the light, John’s youth and certainly very attractive torso become his first line of defense. 

“As a hypothetical,” Marcus says. “I mean it.” 

“I don’t know,” John shrugs. “Haven’t really got that far. Don’t really do hypotheticals, either.” 

Except for the mother of all hypotheticals. Then again, that’s not altogether surprising. John Wick isn’t a man who plays around; he certainly doesn’t do anything by halves. But Marcus follows a bad instinct, so regular that it’s as close as his next breath and reaches to bring John in for a kiss. 

It is slow, lazy, secret and it will never leave the confines of this room, “Humor me.” 

John thinks for a minute and his hand trails under the covers to find Marcus between his legs. He squeezes, and Marcus’s breathing hitches. After that he practically fills out on command. 

“I guess we could start with burning the world down,” John says, lips curling warmly against the skin of Marcus’s shoulder, “the world as we know it.” 

 

Santino D’Antonio is still dead, scarcely three feet away from where Marcus is still standing with a gun in his hand and the bullet must have gone clean through him because another one of his goons, the taller one with the sandy hair has sank to his knees, clutching his shoulder. 

It’s been a while since Marcus has shot anyone up close. 

Nearby, there’s a gurgling sound and then the telling sound, a little fleshy and wet, of someone’s throat being cut. 

“Wake up,” says John somewhere too close, and when Marcus meets his eyes, he catches the red blood on John’s hands in his peripheral vision. 

“What’d you do that for?” 

“He was trying to open the door,” John’s gaze is impenetrable and bottomless; a wave of calm, pristine and clear in a sea of insanity, which is everything else, now. “If you’ve forgotten, the Marker was given to me, it’s not as if I’m a coward. I don’t always need you to clean up my damn mess.” 

“But I need you,” Marcus says. He doesn't mean to, not then. But in John's eyes, the world is only two people.

It comes out easy, easier than “I would, any day of the week.” Possibly because need is something else. Easy and obvious as a breath. Because it’s also traversed a long way, that. First as even a little shameful secret about wanting the _Bratva_ ’s eighteen-year-old darling because Marcus has never thought he’d be that kind of guy. But then John’s steady gaze and his trigger finger wore away Marcus’s proverbial safety until he’s just a live trigger leftover and needy. 

Again, stupid, but maybe not stupid because they’re about to die. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Julius finally busts down the door and John steps deftly out of the way to avoid getting smacked in the face. It’s just as well. 

Julius lets out another string of swears, and then just -- “What the _fuck_?” 

“Um,” John wipes the bloody edge of the knife he is holding, “Self-defense?” 

They’ve gathered an audience, Marcus counts one, two, three, four. Must be a slow day. They can handle four. Four is nothing. 

“That is bullshit and you know it,” Julius trembles. “Even if you were being held hostage, John, which I don’t believe you were for one minute, this. _This_ is unacceptable. And _you_ , what the fuck are you doing?” He whirls on Marcus. 

Santino’s body is still bleeding, almost deflating like a water balloon, and Marcus has to step away to avoid getting any on his shoes. 

Maybe Marcus is a bit slow on the uptake but he’s just now realized that he is always been a bit shit about following his own advice. Chief among said advice: don’t do anything stupid. 

This is stupid. But also the only thing worth doing in his life, he knows that. It's not so much perspective as it is a truth he has always known. 

“I’m retiring; been thinking about that for a long time, too,” Marcus says. He bends and helps himself to Santino’s revolver. Revolvers are not for the faint of heart but Marcus has always liked them, “Hey, John.” 

John blinks, “You’re retiring?” 

“Yeah, I am,” Marcus nods. “Still up for humoring me?” 

John’s face turns, “Is that we’re doing?” 

“If you’d like,” Marcus says, the words almost sticking uncomfortably in his throat, “That’s what we’re doing.” 

 

“All this is yours?” Once he’s gotten over the initial shock, Marcus gets down to business, examining the contents of the box. This is not a last minute plan, but Marcus is sure that if he asks for details, he’s not going to get any outside of the details that specifically involve him. One can only imagine how long Gianna’s been planning something like this, which begs the tangential question of how much she really loves her brother. 

Gianna shrugs, “I have something for authenticity, Marcus. All that is mine, well. Save for the teeth.”

“Santino will probably want a more…” Marcus searches for a word, and finds nothing delicate, “ -- obvious bit of you. What about a finger?” 

“You want a finger.” Gianna examines her hands with renewed interest. “No.” 

“I am giving you my life,” Marcus says. “The least you can do is give me a finger. Show some conviction. If you want me to murder your brother and _cooperate_. If you love him. Then give me your fucking finger.” 

She thinks, “Do you have any family?” 

“None that matter,” Marcus says. “Sit.”

Gianna does and splays all five fingers of her left hand. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Cassian says from somewhere behind them. Marcus almost forgets he’s there. “Asking you for a finger is out of _line_. That won’t even cut bone. It’s a fucking fruit knife.” 

“Anything can cut anything if you keep at it long enough,” Marcus tells him, a touch smug. That smugness is perhaps a bit misplaced because he knows that to be true both ways, but it’s not as if she needs to know that. “But I might be rusty.” 

After that, Marcus feels himself being thrown hard against the wall, pinned bare inches off the ground. “You --”

“Cassian, _enough_.” Gianna remands him sharply and Cassian lets out an unhappy sort of growl and lets Marcus return to terra firma. Despite himself, Marcus is grateful. He keeps quiet, taking a moment to catch his breath. 

Gianna says, “Fine, if he wants a finger, he can have a finger. I have others. -- But first, admit it, Marcus. You are not giving me your life. If it were anyone else, you wouldn’t even be this country, parlaying with me.” 

Marcus holds, “So?” 

“Perhaps,” Gianna says, baring her perfect white teeth, “it is you who lacks conviction. You can’t even admit to yourself that you make stupid decisions on behalf of a man who went to a fuckwit like my brother in his hour of need.”

“It wasn’t need,” Marcus steels himself. “He knows better than to ask me something like that. It was something he wanted. So he figured out a way to get it for himself.” 

To make a point, he stabs the knife between Gianna’s middle and ring fingers. Marcus has to admit, wielding a knife is different, not exactly something he’s used to anymore, but the fact that he has got killer aim doesn’t change.

Gianna flinches, if Marcus had blinked at the wrong moment, he would have missed it. But that’s a rookie mistake and he doesn’t make those anymore. 

“And you forget something, Gianna.” 

She looks at him, “What have I forgotten, cowboy?” 

“You’re a member of the High Table,” Marcus smiles; she’s not the only one who has got teeth. “And you’re going to lose a finger to a nobody like me. I’d say I have plenty of conviction. I know I’m not coming back from this. I don’t want to, either. If I’m going to go out, I’m going out on my own terms.”

 

“I’m going to die,” Helen says. 

“What?” Marcus opens his eyes. 

“I’m going to die,” she reaches out for him and Marcus takes her very thin and cold fingers. He feels a bit like a cheat, or a little thief just lying in wait. A lot of his life has been spent (rightly or wrongly) in wait or want, but this is different. This feels a bit like an event horizon that he doesn’t want to cross. 

“...Don’t say that.” 

“I’ve been in this bed for a month. John always pays the medical bills on time, though God knows how he does it. If it was just that.” 

Marcus makes to get up from the shit plastic chair. It’s just as well, sitting in that thing too long will give him back problems, “...I’m going to call him. Okay, if you’re speaking like that, I’m going to leave and John needs to be here.” 

Helen’s grip tightens on him, “You can go in a minute. -- Here.” 

Marcus swallows, “No.” 

“It doesn’t fit me anymore,” Helen is holding her wedding ring, a simple gold band in the open palm of her right hand.

“It doesn’t fit me, either,” Marcus points out faintly. 

“I want you to have it anyway,” Helen says. “...I want John to live, Marcus. And you need him to live, don’t you? Everything is water.”

“Excuse me?” 

“It’s Aristotle,” Helen tells him. “Well, Thales of Miletus, technically. But this guy, right, he believed that everything came out of water. That without water, there wouldn’t be anything at all.” 

“I don’t really read,” Marcus says, his throat very tight. “I once had a guy who told me I was named after Marcus Aurelius. The guy was full of shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Everything is water”: In Aristotle’s “Metaphysics,” he notes that Thales of Miletus, as “the Father of Science” rejected previous mythical and supernatural explanations of how the world came to be.
> 
> Marcus Aurelius said a lot of things that are still very quotable today. My favorite: “Death smiles at us all, but all a man can do is smile back.” He is also known as the last of the Five Good Emperors, who ruled during Pax Romana which fits with our Marcus being the last of the old guard. 
> 
> Also relevant, Marcus Aurelius on perspective: “Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth.”


	2. Cockroach

Marcus doesn’t kill his mother. But he knows everyone thinks he did. Everyone knows him as that one kid. No one manages to get him for the murder of Trevor Jones, either. For weeks after, the local sheriff had come sniffing around harassing his Ma, who was basically halfway out of her mind anyway. She didn’t have a clue what she was saying. But she’d always said the right thing, in the end. 

_"My Marcus is a good boy. He goes to Church. He makes me coffee. He would never hurt anyone.”_

There’s enough truth in that sentence to hold; Marcus does make his mother coffee. She inhales the stuff. Nearly a gallon every day.

She tells him he should go to college. University of Louisville. She’s been saving up. He says no, no of course he can’t. College ain’t for people like him either. Besides, the neighbors aren’t too good about checking up on her. He doesn’t trust them to look after her. 

The next day, Marcus finds that his mother has put rat poison in her coffee. 

 

They dive out the window. Marcus tells himself that it’s going to save time. This is so stupid it's probably right up there with the chopper. 

Anyway, it’s only the second floor, so it’s fine. Kind of. Mostly. More rookie stuff, but there’s no reason to not go back to the basics. 

“You two are _dead_ ,” Julius wheezes; one gets the sense that he’s been deskbound for too long. Guy could probably stand to do some exercise, “Fucking _dead_. You’ve signed your own warrants.” 

There’s something to be said for Italian cars. Showy, but not practical. Marcus scans the street for the best option -- kind of a tall order when he’s being rushed on both sides. A man on his left, a woman on his right. He gets the man first, twist of the arm, crack of bone and the tearing of muscle. After that, a fish-hook that leaves the guy howling. He still remembers. Somehow, half a guy’s face doesn’t seem like much when you’ve already exerted an extraordinary amount of energy trying to saw off someone’s finger with a fruit knife. 

A stab of pain hits Marcus right near his left shoulder and he jerks, wondering for a moment if he’s really _too late_ , and then a shot goes off right near his ear. 

“ -- You,” says John. 

“What?” 

“I’ve got you,” John says. He slams his elbow into glass and yanks open the door to the only Ford on the street. God Bless America. 

John gives Julius a particularly hard shove into the back and Marcus thinks about telling him that kidnapping the Manager of Rome is possibly stup -- but then again, maybe it isn’t given that Marcus still has the finger of the Queen of the Camorra in his pocket. Besides, that’s the other thing about insurance, you still have to ensure it’s value. So another way of looking at things is that Julius is now, as safe as he’ll ever be, “ -- C’mon, quick.” 

“Julius wasn’t part of the plan,” Marcus says because he thinks it’s the right thing to do, in line with the rules. He straps himself in and tries not to think about how his shoulder is killing him. 

“... _Do_ you have a plan? Because you just fucking shot Santino D’Antonio after shooting his sister. And you jumped out a window. And --” John stops there to trade shots with a passing figure on a motorbike. “And there’s not a point in retiring when you’re just gonna end up _dead_. Guess who told me that?” 

“I do have a plan.” 

“Great, thoughts about sharing?” 

Just then, Julius retches almost violently in the backseat when Marcus careens the car hard to the right and they exchange looks. The implication of that is telling as anything, and Marcus almost wants to laugh. 

“You don’t get out much, do you?” Marcus says. “You should. This is what us nobodies do all the time.” 

“Why do you do that?” John asks, pausing to roll down his window just enough to brain some thatch of blonde hair, leaving a bit of blood on the windowpane. “You do that all the time.” 

“Do what?” 

“Say you’re not anybody,” John says as he rolls the window back up. 

“I don’t know,” Marcus shrugs. “Do we have to talk about it now? He’s there.” There’s inadvisable things you say in front of about ten people who want to kill you, and still, it’s something else different about saying inadvisable things in front of men with influence. Not that Julius looks particularly influenced by anything except for the fact that he can’t seem to stop throwing up. 

“Don’t think he’s listening,” John tosses a glance back. “Where are we going?” 

“I don’t care if he’s not paying attention,” Marcus says and swerves left to knock a figure aiming a rifle at them sideways. “I’m not.” 

More retching. Julius must have a weak stomach. 

“Anyway, you’re ringing,” Marcus says. “Or I am, but I’m driving. Pick up.” 

“Not fair,” John opines as he rolls down the window again to fire, then reload, fire. Just like the steady beating of a near-human heart wanting to live. 

 

Marcus remembers the first time Winston gets angry. He’s twenty-four, and Winston is whatever. Beyond reckoning. 

The instance sticks close to his mind, because Marcus is more or less content to imagine Winston being angry in his head. It’s somehow different, too _real_ , if the rearing of the beast in his head becomes three-dimensional...then Marcus thinks he would have no idea what to do with himself. 

At first, it doesn’t start out that way. 

At first, it is all perfectly civil and Charlie tells him how to line up the tarp against the edge of the walls just so. Blood is notoriously hard to _clean_ , after all. It’s better to give yourself every advantage.

“This is an execution,” Marcus says, drawing breath as something clicks very cleanly in his head. “Surely he --” 

“She,” Winston corrects him and fixes him with a long look. “Is there a problem?” 

“She,” Marcus repeats dutifully and watches as three men drag a woman into the room and push her onto her knees. She’s older than him. Her clothes used to look expensive and well-cared for, meaning she should know better. Marcus wonders why. 

“You do it,” Winston says, and places a gun into Marcus’s hand, “Go on.” 

“Why?”

“Because I want you to,” Winston bears into him, all ice and inhumanity.

Marcus releases the safety and points it point blank against the woman’s forehead, matted with sweat. 

The woman opens her mouth and Marcus is suddenly terrified of what she might say. As if what she might say might peel away the walls he has tried so hard to build up around himself. So like a gormless idiot he empties the clip and squeezes even when the chamber of the gun is already empty. 

“Have I taught you nothing?” 

Marcus is about fifty percent certain he’s about to die. No matter. It’s been all borrowed time from the time his mother swallowed rat poison anyway; she hadn’t anything to give him except his freedom. An inheritance that Marcus has mostly squandered, given where he’s now ended up. 

“I did kill her. I didn’t chicken out or shit.” 

“But you didn’t want to,” Winston smiles at him like Death itself and the gun in Marcus’s hand is suddenly not even a hunk of metal. “I thought you said you had. Before.” 

Marcus draws breath and thinks of a creek in the middle of nowhere, “I have yeah, once. I was thirteen. Beat him with a rock.” 

“Like some caveman extraordinaire,” Winston makes a sound that is distinctly unkind in his throat. Behind Winston, Marcus can see Charlie and another guy wrapping the body up in tarp. “What did he do to you?” 

“He,” Marcus stills and wonders if a reason was ever so stupid and small, “...beat me up.” 

“Childsplay,” Winston says, a dark glint in his eye, “If you keep putting yourself in every bullet, Marcus, then you’re nothing. No better than a cockroach.” 

 

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” 

“Hey, Winston,” John says, digging his knuckles into some guy’s teeth, “We’re a little busy.” 

Marcus doesn’t think he has ever heard Winston say fuck, before. 

“They want me to declare you two excommunicado.” 

“They who?” 

“They the Adjudicator,” Winston says, as if they are both dumb fucks. He’s not entirely wrong. “But Rome is _one of those_ Continentals,” he says ‘one of those’ like it’s some sort of soured mayonnaise. “I’ve refused and now I’ve been given seven days.” 

Marcus veers sharply onto the pavement and hears something crunch beneath the tires of the car, “Seven days to what?” Usually, he’s better about this sort of thing, multitasking; what they don't tell you about being one of the best snipers in the world is that your brain is never off. You always gotta pay attention. But right now in this precise moment, death is a bit more close than he is used to, and Marcus doesn’t have a scope in front of him to buy some time. 

“To vacate my position as Manager, what _else_?” 

John says, "But we're not even in New York." Which Marcus thinks is a fair point.

"They're holding me responsible because I have a personal investment," Winston informs them sourly. "The two of you are most often under the care of my Continental. So this is somehow my problem."

“Oh, so you do like us,” Marcus says. He wants to laugh, “Let’s all retire.” 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Winston says. “Is Julius with you?” 

“Um,” John glances back. “Kind of. He’s not --”

“Don’t tell me he’s dead.” 

“He’s not dead, he’s just,” John twists and shoves the phone near where Julius is burrowed in the corner in his own sick. “Here. Say something.” 

Julius gulps air, “You two are _crazy_.” 

“Hello, Julius. It’s Winston. Do you think they’d be crazy enough to hit the Pope?” Winston says nearly conversationally. “Or should I say stupid enough.”

“Yes,” Julius’s head bobbles like something cheap and discombobulated. “Yeah, they might hit the Pope. Why not. Get me the hell out of here.” 

“I can work with that,” Winston says, summarily ignoring the other Manager’s plea for help, “Cockroach.” 

“I’m sorry?” Julius heaves again. 

“...He means me,” Marcus says when he finally remembers, a series of shots from many years ago ringing clear and presently in his ears. “What?” 

“Whatever the fuck you’re doing, you’d better end it quickly. I want you back in New York. You’re not losing me my job.” 

Then the line goes dead. 

“Cockroach?” John prompts with a raised eyebrow. He turns to shoot at someone attempting to crawl through the window again. Finding the gun out of ammo, he sticks the muzzle in and wrenches. 

Even Marcus has to wince. 

“It’s a bit of a long story.” 

“We’re about to have lots of time,” John extracts something from inside his jacket, “You might want to drive faster.” 

“Is that a grenade,” Marcus stares. “Where’d you get a grenade?” 

But then the rear-view mirror fills with dust and fire and stone. Marcus’s heart is lighter than it has been in years. He floors it. Like a stupid fucking cockroach, he is going to _live_.


	3. Permanence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains vague references to things that happen in [Allelopathy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154281). Please read that if you haven't already! 
> 
> Todi is where they shot the vacation horror flick [Welcome Home](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Welcome_Home_\(2018_film\)) which stars Riccardo Scamarcio in a supporting role and it seemed appropriate to borrow the setting here. 
> 
> Also, if you're into the absurd like I am, let me remind you that Dafoe voiced Rat in Wes Anderson's [Fantastic Mr. Fox](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mp1_PuUoSaM).

Marcus travels alone to Sydney for his first solo job. Everything goes wrong. First, he accidentally kills the wrong Professor Adam Johnson (he gets the medievalist, who is a harmless old guy in his sixties who is still convinced that the Holy Grail is real and located somewhere in Wales). The upside is that it goes without a hitch. 

What goes wrong is afterwards. 

Who he is meant to get is one Professor Adam Johnson, physicist. Something about nuclear weapons. The professor is guarded by a private military outfit which usually wouldn’t be a problem. But Marcus’s gun jams. Though in the end, he gets the guy anyway just about and jumps down five floors down an empty elevator shaft in a moment of panic, and lives to regret it. 

Later, Winston flies into Sydney where Marcus is on some top grade morphine-codeine party mix and tells him things. He is not sure what things. He remembers, vaguely, telling Winston that he now knows all fifteen verses to Waltzing Matilda. It’s a great song. Very catchy.

The man is not amused. 

“You could have _died_ ,’ Winston says severely. “You idiot.” Except that thing. Marcus remembers that thing. 

“You couldn’t have told me that over the phone,” Marcus says. It’s not anything that Winston hasn’t said to him before. But on second thought, maybe he’s so out of it that he’s hallucinated Winston by his bed, which really says terrifying things about his mental stability more than anything else. 

Marcus reaches out and a hand -- whose grip is severe and strong -- takes his.

“No, I couldn’t have told you that over the phone,” Winston says, and doesn’t let go. “Don’t ever do that again. I only have the one life to give you.” 

 

Somehow, they get out of Rome. Winston must have moved mountains and then some with the Pope thing and then some again after, because by the time Marcus manages to get them onto the throughway, all of the shooting has ceased and no one tries to ram them off the road. Still, Marcus is suffering from some pretty stiff sniper’s paranoia where he feels very keenly, the calming stares of targets all over the ridges of his spine. 

But it’s quiet. 

And of course, Winston’s favor is not to say that John’s Hail Mary grenade hasn’t helped. 

As it happens, the most interesting thing that’s happening right now is the very present stench of Julius’s vomit now stale. Somehow, that’s worse. 

Marcus rolls down the window, “Is he alive back there?” 

John cranes his head back to look, “He’s breathing. Anyway, he can’t hear us now.” 

Marcus sucks in a deep breath before remembering that it’s a bad idea. He coughs, buying himself more time, “...I didn’t kill Gianna.” He knows that is one of the less interesting things that he could have said, but it’s still something. A start.

“You didn’t?” John prompts. 

“This is her finger. The authentic object,” Marcus says, retrieving the bag with the digit still in it. “It’s a bit of a hack job.” 

“I see that,” John peers at the bag with some interest, “What did you do? Saw it off with --”

“Your fruit knife,” Marcus tells him. “Sorry. I know it was hers.” 

 

“Helen, I,” Marcus feels a lot like a trapped rodent, “I can’t possibly.” It’s a bit of a funny thing, because usually when a rat is trapped; its first instinct is to fight. Scratch, bite, strangle. And if Marcus had had a gun in hand facing down death itself he might have had a more visceral reaction, thus springing into action. 

Maybe this means that Marcus is tired of living, he can finally admit it. The way he can’t seem to get himself to admit to other things. 

Helen smiles, “You think too much. He does, too. Take it.” 

“A man who doesn’t think is not a living man,” Marcus shrugs. “Bad habit, I suppose. I can’t take it.” 

“Why not?” 

“I can think of fifty reasons,” Marcus says, plucking a number that seems sensible and absurd out of thin air. 

“It’s a shame you missed our wedding,” Helen says.

He wavers, “I told you I was working.” 

“Moving drugs,” Helen’s mouth lifts. “I remember. Ever been to a wedding?” 

“Sure,” Marcus thinks back to five years ago, right around the time John had met Helen. She hadn’t even had a name then. She’d just been, “someone.” Still, the whole thing had left a sour taste in Marcus’s mouth although he hadn’t had the wherewithal to dwell on it. Hadn't wanted to, either. He’d accepted a job in Bali, something he could have done with his eyes closed. It hadn’t even paid well, but he’d needed it. 

A groom had owed money to the wrong people, and Marcus had wondered then (taking it personal, no doubt Winston would have said), whether his bullet had saved the bride from a life of mediocrity and unhappiness, or perhaps his own misery and wanting to earn a quick buck had put a hole in somebody’s life and then they’d bleed forever without knowing why. 

“What was it like?” 

“Very chaotic,” Marcus says with his eyes closed. “The groom went missing.” 

“No!” For whatever reason she finds this hilarious and doubles over and Marcus holds his breath, waiting for the laughter to erupt into coughs and draw the attention of the attending nurse. But it doesn’t. “They find him?” 

“I don’t remember. I was also quite drunk.” 

“Marcus.” 

He examines Helen’s ring again, settled flat on her palm, “Once I die, this ring will not mean anything. John will think it does. But he’s like that. He needs to think that. While it still holds meaning, while it is still within the protection of _bonum sacramenti_ , I want to give it to you.” 

At first he thinks, _great, more Latin_. But then, Marcus doesn’t exactly think that Helen Wick is that full of shit. Her head might be going, but she isn’t full of shit. She’s _normal_ and loved by an entire ocean and perhaps a drop. 

“And that is, what?” 

“The good of permanence between two people,” Helen says. “The Church prefers man and wife, but that’s old fashioned.” 

“I’m not,” Marcus swallows. The spit in his mouth suddenly tastes like sludge and feels just as thick. 

“ -- I’m back,” John says, from somewhere behind them and Marcus doesn’t know which is worse, so he grabs the ring and stuffs it in the pocket of his pants and there it sits like a sinking stone. “What are we talking about?” 

“Coffee,” Helen says. “Marcus says he’ll bring us some.” 

John looks between them and Marcus feels very keenly, that black gaze peeling away his skin, his muscle, and then finally to coax out his soul which probably has never seen sunlight. 

The ring is burning a hole in his pocket, “Sure. I’m due another delivery soon, anyway.” Marcus hightails it out of the room because he needs air and everything is water. 

 

Todi is a quaint little village near Tuscany. The D’Antonios own this whole village and it’s eerily quiet. Like everyone has been told in no uncertain terms to stay off the winding road because there are monsters on their way. 

“I don’t recognize this,” John says, peering around with sharp-eyed curiosity. “Where’s this?” 

“I told you I do have a plan,” Marcus throws him a look, “Trust me. It’s a D’Antonio stronghold. We’ll be okay here for a little bit.” 

“Been here before?” John asks. He’s probably cottoned onto the fact that Marcus is lost in his own thoughts, and that his eyes aren’t on the road. Still, it’s a road that only leads in one direction and there’s nobody around. 

“Once,” Marcus says. “She wanted to show off. Here’s my whole _fucking village_. Look at all my booze.” 

“...Did it impress you?” 

“The booze impressed me,” Marcus shrugs. “I don’t think I was sober for a week.” Still, he doesn’t really do wine. “She doesn’t need to impress anybody.” 

“Maybe she just liked you,” John says. “She gave you her damn finger. I wouldn’t have.” 

“Really, then what would you give me?” Suddenly, it’s become a matter of, as Gianna puts it, great curiosity. 

“Maybe my toe,” John taps his left foot meaningfully. 

Marcus makes a face, “You can keep your damn toe.” 

After a fashion, Marcus supposes that he and Gianna D’Antonio do like each other. In another life, they might have done more with that. Mainly, if Marcus had found it in himself to be more than a nobody. 

Because this whole day has been a bit of a wash anyway, he asks, “Are you jealous?” 

John shrugs, “Maybe a little.” 

A little is a far cry from ‘not at all.’ The reality of his words, for words are real if you let them be that way, hits like a wave. Marcus has made do with so little, even after he’d single-handedly sent John away from him for his own safety only for John to run for normal. The man deserves normal. 

It’s practically a flood. 

“You have nothing to be jealous about,” Marcus says. “We weren’t anything, in the end. We were never anything. I don’t think Cassian would have let it stand. We weren’t anything like.” _You and Helen._ At first he convinces himself that he doesn’t need to say that out loud. Then he has to admit that he can’t, again, but only in the privacy of his own head. 

“Just let me have this,” John says. “I don’t feel any shame, being jealous of Gianna D’Antonio.” 

This time, Marcus doesn’t have to ask him what he means. 

 

Finally, they park in front of a farmhouse and a man comes out to greet them flanked by a couple of cronies, natural show of strength _et cetra_ , “You must be the cowboy. And you must be Mr. Wick. We were told to expect you.” 

There’s something odd about the man, but Marcus can’t quite put his finger on it, something about his face perhaps, something about how his lips don’t exactly form the right words but out they come anyway. There’s a tattoo just above his wrist, mostly hidden by the white of his sleeve; Marcus thinks he can just about make out a number. Maybe a six or a nine. 

“That’s us,” Marcus says. God, his shoulder is killing him. But that’s not a bad thing exactly. Pain usually comes back to find him when he feels a measure of safety. “I have her toll. -- Sorry I couldn’t find a cooler.” 

The guy looks, rightly, like he doesn’t want to touch the bag, “You know.” 

“We were making half of it up,” Marcus says. “Sorry.” 

The guy stares at them again and scratches idly at his cheek, “And how about the business with the Pope?” 

“What are you talking about?” John asks. “If you’re talking about Julius he’s passed out in the back.” 

The guy considers this, “...No, I’m talking about the Pope.” He waves them towards the front door of the farmhouse, “You should get your shoulder looked at, cowboy.” 

John says, “Cowboy?” 

“Another long story,” Marcus waves it aside. 

 

“Try not to think,” John says. “It will make it easier.” 

Marcus thinks that there is something hilariously ironic about this. Them hiding out in a house full of men who are somewhere between living and dead like they certainly are, and John Wick is stitching him up. Then John adds, “Or let’s talk about something.” 

“Bet she was impressed that you could sew,” Marcus says, mostly because the silence is black and oppressing and strange and he is good with pain, up to a point. They are possibly reaching that point. 

“I prefer this,” John tells him. “Socks are difficult.” 

“You sewed socks.” 

“Yes,” John says. “And some other things. I wasn’t very useful around the house. But you know. I tried to be. Though I think the going term is darning. I darned our socks.” 

Usually, Marcus is sewn up with localized anesthesia at hand. He’ll have to settle for the image of John fucking Wick darning socks at home. Actually, that’s probably better than laughing gas, real lethal stuff. Marcus feels himself shaking even before any sound reaches his throat. 

He feels an admonishing poke to the nape of his shoulder, “Stop laughing.” 

“Can’t help it,” Marcus admits. “That’s going to give me something to dine out on for days.” 

“Let’s talk about something else,” John says. “Something that won’t make you laugh. I’m out of practice. Did I -- tell you she was wearing black when I met her?” 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Marcus assents, “You like black. You look good in it.” And that’s a funny thing too, these compliments used to come to his mouth, like bitterness weighing a ton. After the flood, it seems to cost him so little. 

“So do you,” John says.

“I don’t wear black,” Marcus doesn’t think he’s even worn black to Helen’s funeral, which he had attended at a distance. There is just something distressing about black and everyone else wears black often enough. Marcus finds he prefers olive and beige in a strange bottom of the bargain bin kind of way. 

“You did once.” 

And then Marcus remembers, mostly because his feet had not been his friend for days afterwards and he’d vowed never to do it again, “No. That doesn’t count.” 

“Why not?” He feels John’s lips ghost very warmly by his earlobe. “I’ve --” 

“It cheapens it, what you had.” 

“What I had,” John starts. “Had very little to do with you. You think too much.” 

“I do think too much.” Marcus agrees. “That was what she said.” 

“Gianna,” John says, because he is a lovely, forgiving kind of man. Someone with a soul. 

“Helen,” Marcus says. 

John thinks, “She really liked you. Mostly I think she was relieved because she thought I had no friends.” 

Marcus shifts to reach for something in his pocket, “She gave me this -- don’t worry, it’s not a finger.” It’s worth saying, because John’s face suddenly goes a strange shade of gray. 

He drops Helen’s ring into John’s palm. 

John’s face does another turn, “I. I thought the mortician nicked that to make a buck.” 

“...Do I want to know what you did to the mortician?” 

“He is still alive,” John says, vaguely. 

“Oh,” Marcus feels officially terrible and if he gets out of this, he’s going to look into sending said mortician one of those fancy fruit baskets. 

It takes John another long, long moment, “Now you are beholden to me.” 

Marcus draws in a deep breath, “I didn’t need that to tell me, John. Maybe I always was.”


	4. Benevolence

“What’s this?” 

“It’s a vault,” Winston fixes him with a long look; the dimensions are a bit new but Marcus recognizes its components, in the end. _Use your head_ and _you dumb fucker_ all rolled into one. Marcus has to admit to its efficacy and couldn’t fault the sting that settles itself in his temple like it’s got pride of place, well worn and familiar. 

Marcus shakes himself and decides to change tact, “Why do you have one? Preparing for a nuclear winter or something?” There is over-prepared, he thinks, and then there is _fucking over-prepared_. This is that, the second one. 

“I thought it might be prudent after your little jaunt to Sydney to have such an option at hand,” Winston says, making himself comfortable in one of the chairs. “You might have caused a nuclear winter.” 

“I almost feel special,” Marcus says.”To gift to you such impetus.” Which is bullshit really. If because if he really thinks about it, he’s known Winston a long time now, more than a year, enough so that the life he’d lived before seem like less than anything. Something he dreams about at night, though now, less and less. He doesn’t think he has anything to gift to Winston except a perennial headache. 

“You gift me shit,” Winston returns, in what almost passes as an American accent, a strangely flat Midwestern affair that sounds, wouldn’t you know it, nearly provincial and strange on the tongue of the Manager of the New York Continental, who isn’t any of those things. It’s something they don’t talk about. 

Marcus shrugs. 

“Drink?” 

“Please,” Marcus says. He watches as Winston fetches glistening tumblers from a cupboard and tips bourbon into one, whiskey in the other. 

A telling buzz in his pocket takes away from Marcus’s mild surprise that Winston keeps bourbon in his super secret vault despite professing over and over to hate the stuff. 

On screen: _S. NOVICK, EXCOMMUNICADO 15:00 EST $3M BOUNTY_

“Right,” Winston mutters. “Remind me that Stephen owes me coin.” 

“Stephen owes you coin,” Marcus parrots back dutifully skimming the top of his bourbon and letting the heat of the liquor sit at the tip of his tongue. “Why? You guys running a pool or something?” 

“Certainly not,” Winston looks at him a bit sideways, “it’s just a bit of harmless fun.” 

“Worth three million,” Marcus says. 

“In time, that will seem like chump change, Marcus.” 

“That’s probably one of the nicest things you have ever said to me,” Marcus can’t help himself. 

Winston does not say anything, he drinks his whiskey, and lets the silence gather up all the warmth in the room. “Never thought of myself as a nice person.” 

 

All things considered, Marcus is probably not a nice person either. A nice person would crack under all the stupid. A nice person would not keep trying, because trying means that you step on other people to get ahead. You step on their fingers, their throats, their ribcage that holds their beating hearts. 

Marcus goes hunting for S. Novick like the rest of the city, finds the guy holed up in a hotel room in the Village, which is, in retrospect, kind of dumb. He shoots him from the next building over, where the vantage point is so good, Marcus feels like he is shooting fish in a barrel. Of course he doesn’t miss. His bullet and where it lands (cutting right through the man’s eardrums and then some) raises the hackles of a couple of knife nuts who are trying to dispose of S. Novick at close range. 

But it isn’t as if Marcus gives a shit. Within the hour, three million dollars worth of chump change shows up in his bank account. 

Marcus decides he needs a vacation (or maybe just to get away from Winston in general) so he books the next flight to Benidorm where apparently everyone is British, or at least sounds that way. 

He ends up cutting his stay short and comes home early. 

 

John says, “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Tell you what? That your wife gave me her ring, because of some,” Marcus cuts himself off and clears his throat. It feels like something is still stuck, “It’s not a thing that just comes up, John.” 

“Right,” John nods, he weighs the ring in his hand. “Because we don’t talk about anything.” 

“That’s not strictly true,” Marcus says. 

“I guess not.” John assents. He touches the raised scar that has formed over Marcus’s left shoulder blade. “Try moving?” 

It hurts, but pain is good. Marcus tells himself that; pain’s great. It means he’s still here, “I can work with this.” 

John gathers up the leftover suture and the needle with bits of blood and makes to put them away, but before he does, he holds out Helen’s ring, “Have it back.” 

Marcus says, “Are you going to do me like you did the mortician?” 

John stares at him for a long moment and opens his mouth. Before he can say anything, there’s a knock on the door. Marcus goes to open it. Gianna D’Antonio is there, with Cassian like a tall dark shadow. Marcus is very very aware that she’s only got nine fingers. 

“All sorted?” 

“Just about,” Marcus says. “Thanks. I mean, _grazie_.” 

She peers at him up and down, as if trying to ascertain which bits of him have gone missing or found, or simply loopy. Behind him, Marcus is conscious too, of John’s stare on his spine. It feels nearly warming or maybe as the man has said, a bit jealous. 

“You don’t have to thank me for anything, Cowboy. We had an agreement. I’m just fulfilling it. Now, come. Both of you.” 

Gianna turns away from the door, Marcus makes to follow her but he ends up being distracted by his cell phone, which buzzes with two consecutive texts: 

_JOHN WICK, EXCOMMUNICADO, 19:00 CEST, $12M BOUNTY_  
_MARCUS AURELIUS, EXCOMMUNICADO, 19:00 CEST $10M BOUNTY_

“I broke double digits,” Marcus says. That’s the most surprising thing about this text. 

“That’s not your real name, is it?” John glances at him. “Winston cheated.” 

 

“Does anyone who gets declared excommunicado ever live?” 

Winston peers at Marcus over his wine and his crossword. The way he pauses to consider the query suggests to Marcus that for once, he has happened upon a question worth asking. It's certainly taken him long enough, “Excommunicado is a punishment that usually leads to death. But that’s just one option. There are ways to live. But not without sacrifice.” 

“Have you ever declared anyone excommunicado?” 

“I have,” Winston says, “It was most satisfying.” 

Marcus rolls his eyes, but of course it was. 

 

Gianna leads them into some sort of reception room with a high ceiling and what is probably an authentic painting of something or the other by Georges Rouault. She’d pointed it out to him during his last visit, as if she’d expected Marcus to be impressed. 

Marcus hadn’t been, but that hadn’t been Gianna’s fault. 

Anyway, this time around, there are more things to pay attention to. Namely, the people lounging around look at Marcus and John as if they are rats brought in from outside. None of these people are usual members of the Camorra cabal and Marcus realizes -- 

“You,” he breathes out. “I tried to kill you. I put a…” 

“Hole through my hand?” Isabella Lebedev grins. Her face has changed, but that’s the thing about snipers too, they don’t look at faces or hair. They look at the movements of bodies, what will always betray them even if the rest of them try not to. But the woman sitting there on the armrest of the couch is undeniably one Isabella Lebedev looking a bit worse for wear at least a decade older. Marcus knows this, even if she's got a new nose and a new chin. 

She holds out her right hand, “Here, you can see it if you squint.” 

“Looks like a bullet,” John says near his ear and Marcus nearly jumps. 

Marcus says, remembering the partially hidden tattoo above the wrist of the man who had greeted them, “Where’s your number?” He remembers her number, just about: _I. LEBEDEV, $2M BOUNTY_. Chump change. He’d gone hunting for the hell of it. 

“Right here,” Lebedev twists to look at the nape of her right shoulder. Marcus spies a 2, carved into her skin, almost crude.

Cassian says, “Have you figured it out?” 

“Everyone here,” John looks around. “...is excommunicado? How did you even --” 

“Who do you take her for?” Cassian fixes him with a long look. 

Gianna nods, “Except we don’t call it that. It’s crude.” 

“Then what do we call it?” Marcus looks at her. 

“Benevolence,” she smiles at him. 

Teeth again. Marcus has the distinct feeling that he’s missed his chance to ask exactly where the other set of teeth have come from, and wonders if, if poor Santino (or not so poor but still very dead) had had the wherewithal to check on the provenance of his sister’s so-called teeth. If things could have turned out differently. 

But again, probably not. 

“Benevolence,” Marcus repeats. “You killed your brother. You specifically told me to _shoot him on Continental Grounds._ How the fuck is that going to help you reset the Table?”

“If you want to change the world,” Gianna says. “You have to get rid of the bits you don’t like, Cowboy. Sacrifice something you love. For me, that was both.” 

 

Marcus no longer hunts for chump change. He’s lost his taste for it, but beyond that, he couldn’t tell you why. 

Maybe it's because hunting has become a young man’s game. A game of desperation that calls all the rats out of their sewers, eager for a bite of fresh meat. It turns out that John has never hunted, not in that way, either. But John is not a hunter, he doesn’t need to be. 

“But if I ever were,” John says. “I’d rather you shoot me.” 

There is a red mark by John’s clavicle. A mark that Marcus knows isn’t his, but he also knows that he will never ask where it’s come from. In the grand scheme of things, it is a small price to pay. Marcus feels like he is paying tolls everywhere, sometimes, his head spins at how much he owes. That’s probably why he drinks too much.

“Yeah?” 

A gun is never far from Marcus’s grasp. He loads one, a shiny new Smith and Wesson recommended to him by a certain Sommelier just for kicks, and points it right against John’s clavicle. 

“Just trying it out,” Marcus says. 

John leans in against the barrel, “How does it feel?” 

Marcus settles his finger on the trigger, “Okay, I think. Still think I won’t shoot you?” 

“I can feel you working up to it,” John says, smiling that smile that ties a knot around every bit of Marcus worth anything. “I’ve got time. I can wait.” 

 

“By the grace of the benevolent High Table shall you go,” Gianna spreads her hands and Marcus is suddenly very cognizant of her missing finger -- yet again. “But I am afraid that I cannot guarantee your safe passage into New York itself, if that is indeed where you’re going. That is beyond what I am able to do. And I don’t want to send you with any of the men. Much as I’d hate to say it, I need them. When the Emissaries come, they’ll settle accounts here before they move elsewhere. Especially since they think we have the Pope.” 

“The Pope,” John says. “You mean Julius? At least fifty people saw him fall out of a window.” 

“Lucky for me, all those people are possibly dead or at least not talking,” Gianna says. “Winston certainly did his bit. Do thank him for me.” 

“If we ever get back to New York,” Marcus deadpans. He doesn’t think there are enough bullets in the world to accomplish that. Besides, his shoulder is half fucked. 

John says, “I’ve got that covered.” There is something new in his voice, a sort of impetus, of wanting to be useful, a purpose. “I still have my ticket. It’ll have to do. I can get us back to New York.” 

“What ticket,” Marcus says. 

But this seems to make perfect sense to both Gianna and most of the others around in the room. Some of the men and Isabella Lebedev even look impressed that John is in possession of a ticket at all. Whatever it is. 

“But he doesn’t have one,” Gianna says, pointing her chin towards Marcus. 

“I’ll figure it out,” John tells her. To Marcus, he says, “I need to make a call.” 

“Don’t do,” Marcus starts, and then he stops. 

“Yeah, a bit late for that,” John says, one side of his mouth lifting. 

Gianna says, “Cowboy.” 

“Yes,” Marcus says with his heart in his throat. Mostly because. He goes to her like some sort of dog, but he isn’t her dog. 

“Don’t die,” she presses a kiss to his mouth and it’s chaste and Italian and giving, “A new world is coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how the system would have worked without cell phones. So just go with it that they had that when Marcus started working. Beepers are so much less sexy. 
> 
> 10 and 12 are significant biblical numbers signalling totality. More [here](https://listverse.com/2012/09/20/top-10-significant-numbers-in-biblical-numerology/). I particularly like this bit: "John 3:16 is the thesis of the entire Bible. It is the mirror image of the number of laws in the Old Testament, and thus, its digits add up to 10." ALSO GUYS IT IS IN THE BOOK OF JOHN. 
> 
> Gianna is the feminine form of John and that's why there's this weird Marcus/Gianna thing going on. I don't know, my brain's weird.


	5. Fealty

It falls to Cassian to drive them to a nearby airfield and they leave loaded. They are so loaded that Marcus practically feels extra clips coming out of his ears and there’s a weird safety in it, Knowing that as long as the trigger in his hand is connected to a bullet, he has a fighting chance. 

Marcus has never been so close to death, but he has never wanted to live so damn much, either. 

They’re on the road for not more than ten minutes when a telling sound of an explosion goes and Marcus spies a telling column of smoke when he looks back. 

“It’s started,” Cassian says. 

“Shouldn’t you be there?” John asks. “Instead of, I don’t know, babysitting us.” 

“She probably thinks you need it,” Cassian snorts a little unkindly. “But no, she says I don’t have enough anger in me to survive what they want to do.” 

From personal experience, Marcus thinks that Cassian is an angry enough person. But as with everything else, he supposes it’s a matter of perspective and therefore open to interpretation. “What does she consider...angry enough?” 

“Everybody in there,” Cassian jerks his head back meaningfully, “has a bone to pick. They got something to prove. The only thing they have left is their own lives, and that’s the point where a man becomes a beast.” 

“Sounds fucking terrifying,” says John. 

What is even more terrifying, Marcus considers, is that maybe he has a type. But that’s something he’s going to keep to himself and take to the grave. 

 

“Well come on,” the man says. “It’s cold out there. You’re not even wearing shoes.”

“I’m wearing shoes,” Marcus protests, glancing down at himself. “Kind of. Give me a break, alright?” 

“You could argue I’m trying to,” the man doesn’t sound amused. “Are you always this difficult with people who are trying to help you? And besides, the air stinks out there.” 

“Sure,” Marcus eyes the car and the man. He is very much unable to “You’re trying to help me. Bet it smells like roses in there.” 

But Marcus gets into the sedan anyway because at the end of the day, it feels to him like he is making the same sort of choice. He can’t see the driver, since the front and the back of the car are separated by a thick glass with something pulled over it. Marcus has never seen a car like that, except in the movies. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. 

Waits. Nothing happens. 

“Not gonna kill me?” 

“That’d ruin the upholstery,” the man says. “Besides, it would be unaccountably rude of me.” 

Marcus opens his eyes. Takes a good look. The man is nothing like he expects. For one thing, he looks too young, maybe not even forties, to be pulling this shit. Or maybe Marcus is too old. He’s come with his own brand of cynicism to brandish against all other expectations that this man might have of him. 

“Then what do you want?” 

“Nothing that you can give,” the man looks away from him. He taps the black glass and the car starts again. “Not yet.” 

 

Gianna has chartered them a neat little private plane but the pilot looks like he’s about to piss himself once he puts the two and two together and recognizes his two passengers.

“But aren’t you two…” 

“We are,” John says. “But I have a guarantee for safe passage.” 

“We’re not going to get blown out of the sky or anything?” 

“Positive,” John nods. 

“Which is not a no,” the pilot grouses. “Fuck’s sake. Okay, come on.” 

The cockpit is separated from the rest of the plane by a door made out of light steel but Marcus would wager that it isn’t soundproof. Still, he is glad even for a bit of illusion. The plane lurches forward to a perilous start and Marcus’s stomach lurches with it.

John settles in beside him, and buckles up, “Tell me what you’re thinking about.” 

Against all odds, Marcus almost feels like praying. He must be losing it, “What’s the ticket?” 

John hesitates, “Do you really not have one?” 

“I don’t have one,” Marcus says. “Winston never told me what one was, either.” 

“He picked you up, brought you to the Continental, handed you a gun,” John muses. Before Marcus can say anything to dispute this, John adds, “...You got drunk once and told me.” 

“How drunk? When?” _Did I start speaking funny_ , is the other question that lingers at the tip of Marcus’s tongue, but then he decides to keep that to himself, too. 

John shrugs. 

“Worst day of my fucking life,” Marcus mutters. He puts his phone to his ear. Winston’s on his speed-dial, out of convenience rather than any sort of sentiment, which the man would have hated. 

The call cuts without ringing. Marcus tries again. Again, nothing. 

John is watching him carefully, undoubtedly calculating how much sentiment Marcus can handle at this point and time. That’s something else that Marcus has come to realize and like about John. The man is all willful sentiment, but he’s just enough of a professional to never let it affect his work...unless John’s temper flared like a bad case of gout. -- And maybe that makes them just about even. 

Finally, John says, “Do you want me to tell you why I gave Santino D’Antonio the Marker? No bullshit this time.” 

“No bullshit,” Marcus repeats. “Sure.” 

“Do you know the difference between faith and fealty?” 

“One’s less bullshit than the other,” Marcus tries. “Supposedly.” 

“That too,” John smiles, “You can find fealty in all corners of the world. People are always wanting your fealty, your service. And you give, because it’s the only thing you know how to give. It’s also easy to give, as long you don’t think about it too much, you know? I went to Santino expecting the world to change; wanting it to change. I guess I thought he was like his sister, only he wasn’t.” 

“You could have asked Gianna instead,” Marcus says. “Think of that?” 

John gives him a long look, “I guess Santino was also a calculated risk. I would have rather not owed her. You did. You do, and now we’re excommunicado.” 

Marcus finds that he can’t argue with that even though it could be said that John’s interpretation of said events are a bit unfair. All of the sudden, he is so tired again. He leans his head against the telling edge of John’s scapula and the man doesn’t move. 

“Faith is different,” John says. “When I found love, I found faith. I didn’t need fealty if I had faith. It wasn’t at all like what the Director taught me.” 

“And do you,” Marcus starts. “Still have faith? Because I do, now.” 

“I have faith,” John says. There’s an inordinate amount of Helen in that sentence and Marcus hurts all over like something inconsequential. Like something he hasn’t been in a long time. A very small thing. 

“Who’s the Director?” 

“I guess you could call her my mother,” John glances at Marcus with a wry little smile. “But don’t call her that to her face. She’d kill you.” 

 

“Take this,” the man -- Winston -- puts something in Marcus’s hand and it feels a lot like a gun. Upon further inspection, it is very clearly a gun; the gun is even loaded and the safety isn’t on. He pops it neatly back into place. 

Marcus thinks that he must be missing something, “What’s this?” 

“A fighting chance, if you want,” Winston says. 

“Why?” 

“You look like you need it.” Then he gestures at the piece, “Ever used one?” 

“I’ve gone hunting, a few times,” Marcus says. “Not with something like this. They have caliber restrictions. This is too small.” _My balls are bigger than yours, fucker._

Winston doesn’t seem particularly bothered, “So you hunt, big game?” 

“Bear. A few times,” Marcus tells him; it’s not a lie, but he wonders if he should have -- that is -- lied. “As long as you had a license, you’re guaranteed one bear a season. So long as the bear is over seventy-five pounds. That big enough?” 

That’s the right thing to say, Marcus thinks, because Winston sits up straighter and takes notice, “And you could afford a license even if you can’t afford shoes.” 

“Licenses are cheap. Especially youth ones,” Marcus says. “And so long as long as I was careful to say that I didn’t kill nothing, I could hunt all I want. Plenty of people wanted bear on their walls. Right of passage or something.” 

“Have you ever thought about hunting for yourself?” Winston asks. “Everything you earn would be yours to keep.” 

“Yeah. I guess.” It is not untrue. Marcus has thought about it, but thoughts are just like bare germinations of a thing just start. Bullets are small things too, but they are filled with intent. 

Winston steeples his fingers together and naturally, Marcus’s attention is drawn to his hands. They are gnarled, like the man has been places. “Knock the glass for me, please.” 

Marcus does. The glass rolls down, and someone says, “Where to, sir?” 

“The Continental.” 

 

“The Director demands that you come see her so that she can tear your ticket, John Wick.” 

These people don’t waste any time, do they? They’ve barely touched down in New York, and there’s already a muzzle of a gun inches away from Marcus’s face. It’s not even been, by Marcus’s calculation, five minutes. 

“Relax,” John says. Ironically, he sounds a bit strangled himself. 

“I am trying,” Marcus says. His heartbeat is not quite where it should be; as far as he can tell, his blood pressure is up. “I still don’t have a ticket. Excuse me if I think they might blow my head off.” 

“He has the grace of the Manager of the Continental in Manhattan,” John tells the lead goon with a gun. “That should be enough. For now. If she wants to extract some other form of payment from me for such an added burden, she can. But she has to tell me what she wants. Until then, you have to guarantee his safety.” 

“You say that, _Jardani Jonovich_ , as if the Manager’s word is worth anything now.” The goon says.

“The hell does that mean?” Marcus swallows. Belatedly, he realizes that the goon has also called John something else. It’s a mouthful, though it is too, unusual enough that he might ask about it later. 

“The specifics of such a matter doesn’t concern you,” the same goon smiles at him showing teeth. “The Director always gets what she’s owed, in the end. Come along.” 

 

Aside from the distinct discomfort of a 9mm sticking rather incapably in his shoulder, where John had not long sewn him up, Marcus would rate the journey into the city proper as peaceful enough. He doesn’t breathe for any of it, but that’s another thing altogether. 

Where they end up is one of those buildings like the Continental. Like you think it’s one thing, but it’s in actuality something else. Marcus has driven past the place a couple of times, and he’s always labored under the delusion that the building was some sort of opera house. It being that, he supposes that it’s unusual that he has never had a hit here, because there is just something about offing people inside a theatre. There is even a name for it, pulling a Wilkes. 

Turns out that Marcus is almost right. The place specializes in ballet and not opera. The thought of John doing ballet cracks him up, but now’s not the time or the place. 

“Jardani Jonovich, my wayward son,” the Director smiles and Marcus remembers, that Winston used to smile like that too, a sheer black hole. “Why would you come home after the mess you’ve made?” 

“I didn’t return out of sentiment, Director. I returned because I am owed,” John says. “I swore fealty and now I am owed.” 

“I could easily revoke whatever I might have owed you, Jardani, by reminding you that he doesn’t have a ticket.” The Director now turns her gaze over to Marcus, “Therefore the protection, what little it might provide you now, of the Ruska Roma has never extended to you, Marcus Aurelius. Nor was it meant to. You were -- you are -- an unusual addition to our world.” 

She looks him up and down and Marcus nearly finds himself coming apart under the scrutiny of her gaze, “Winston was always a very unusual Manager. Too young, too old. Too vain. Too immediate and personal.” 

“How do you figure that?” Marcus’s tongue feels thick in his mouth. But the joke’s on her, he thinks, because Winston is at least not one of those things. 

“Winston thought he knew better than the rest of us,” she says. “So he raised you on his own. Every once in a while, someone thinks that, usually Managers, because they’re given little kingdoms to run. The poor little cubs that get plucked from anywhere, they’re usually the ones to pay with their lives while their useless masters keep on living. But somehow, you managed to live in the flawed shadows of one man’s vision.” 

“It’s not as if I was crawling around in my own shit when I met him,” Marcus feels the odd need to defend Winston’s choices. Although he’s not so much defending Winston as he is, defending himself. His small normal life. It has not been like that for some time, but all it takes is one word, like how it only takes one bullet to end a life. 

“I think it’s a failed experiment,” the Director says. “I’ve said this before, to him. Vanity ends well for no one. If a man is only what he sees in the mirror, then he is hardly anything at all.” 

“It isn’t and it is,” Marcus expels a breath. “Instead of fealty, I learned the possibility of faith. I don’t think that I would have survived otherwise. It’s the only damn thing keeping me alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now six chapters because I didn't want the last chapter to get bulky. 
> 
> Black bear hunting is a popular sport in Kentucky and I wasn't able to find a more dated version of the rules surrounding it. But youth or junior licenses are much cheaper and each hunter with a license is indeed guaranteed one bear per season as long as they bring the right kind of gun and the bear is over 75 pounds (this is to protect the bears that are still growing and smaller females). 
> 
> If you believe in spirit animals, a bear is also a symbol of introspection and self-belief. Therefore, it could be argued that once Marcus stopped hunting bears, he also stopped avoiding the things it represents (kind of) and became a better person. 
> 
> One more chapter to go, thanks for being here :).


	6. Pax Romana

While John is off somewhere getting _married_ (somewhere being Vermont. Why Vermont?) Marcus works. He works like he hasn’t worked for a long time. Jakarta, Kuala Lumpur, and then finally, Manila. In between jobs are bodies. Live ones instead of dead ones. Marcus is nothing if not a man of discerning taste. Something else Winston has instilled him. 

“What’s happened to you?” 

Marcus feels a telling touch at the nape of his neck, mostly because of the press of a signet ring cold against his skin. “Working holiday. Thought I’d treat myself, why not?” 

“Yes,” Winston slides in next to him in the booth, “Why not. Want something to drink?” 

“I can’t handle booze. I’ll never drink again.” He’s done more than alcohol, recently, but maybe Winston wouldn’t be too impressed with that so it’s something he doesn’t volunteer. Marcus is this side of forty. But he’s been accounting to Winston for quite a while now, that it’s just about second nature. It's compulsive and unhealthy. 

“Maybe you’re just old, darling.” 

“That’s real funny,” Marcus says. “You’re fucking hilarious.” 

Someone comes by and puts something on the table. 

“Despite your tone of voice, Marcus, I’m nothing if not a merciful God. Compliments of Management.” 

“You’re not God,” Marcus mumbles. There’s a coffee sitting not far from where he is. And something else on a napkin. Aspirin. Thank fuck. “God abandoned me a long time ago.” 

“Or perhaps God just trusts you enough to fend for yourself.” 

“You don’t trust me,” Marcus says. Still, it’s a shame to let good coffee go to waste, so he gulps it like some sort of desperate plebeian after his next hit of something good and lets the aspirin slide down his throat. 

Winston does not deign that with an answer, “It’s a shame you missed Jonathan’s wedding, what with your working holiday.” 

“You went?” 

“I was invited,” Winston shrugs. “Seemed rude to decline.” 

“Was it nice?” 

“It was small,” Winston says. “Intimate. I think you might have enjoyed it.” 

Right, Winston is that kind of guy. The sort that doesn’t just kick a dog when it’s down, he gauges its ribs and licks the last of the meat off of his bones. Kind of like a hyena. “...Winston, I did the best I could.” 

“I know.” 

And that, Marcus isn’t expecting. He looks up blearily and for a moment, it is like Winston _is_ God, and Marcus is thirsting for whatever modicum of truth that this deity might see fit to give him. “Meaning what?” 

“From where I sit, you’ve given Jonathan a great gift. One might almost call it _Pax Romana_.” 

Marcus fixes him with a long look, “You think I gave John the Roman Peace. What are you, on something?”

“You know what that is,” Winston looks impressed, and then he looks a bit disappointed. 

“I have a copy of Marcus Aurelius’s biography in my room.” Which is not something that Marcus ever thought he would ever be proud of, but there it is. It’s good for bedtime reading. Knocks him right out. 

“Which one?”  
.  
“Don’t know,” Marcus throws back the rest of the coffee. It’s done him some good, “Don’t avoid the question.” 

Winston considers this, “She’s good for him. You see that. She can give Jonathan what you either can’t or refuse to. And you are left to bear this burden on your own precisely because you can. If you couldn’t, you wouldn’t have done it.’ 

“And that means?” 

“You would have subjected yourself to worse than just a working holiday,” Winston says, “It’s simple. Don’t play the fool because you think that it will garner sympathy from me.” 

His phone buzzes then, and Marcus checks the screen. He is fucking relieved. “ -- Pardon me.” 

“Where are you going?” 

Marcus smiles, summoning cruelty long curled inside of his bones. Another relief, “Hunting. It’s open season. And I have all the time in the world.” 

 

“That’s admirable,” says the Director. 

“It’s just a matter of perspective,” Marcus shrugs. “And I want to live. If this is the way for me to live, then so be it. I don’t have a ticket, but I’ll give you something else. What do you want?”

“Marcus,” John says. “You don’t have to do this. You have no idea what she’s going to ask of you.” 

“It’s all right,” Marcus says, strange tendrils of fear pausing just at the edge of his soul. It’s funny what even a little bit of perspective does to one’s life. “Short of my killing you, which she is not going to ask me to do.” At least, that’s what he’s banking on, “...A mother won’t kill her cub. Will she?” 

“If she has to,” the Director says. “But not today. Do you know much about ballet?” 

“I can hum _Swan Lake_. At a push.” Marcus says that, but he hopes she won't make him demonstrate. 

The Director says something, something intelligible, followed by a name. John makes a face, a faint shadow of a wince. A girl, possibly no older than fourteen, scutters out onto the stage and Marcus is suddenly struck by the fact that she is very small. 

“Then, I shall educate you.” 

She clicks her fingers, and the light on the stage narrows to a single point. The click is loud, like a grenade exploding not two inches from them. Soft music from somewhere starts to play, sounding a little tinny and live, even though Marcus looks around for any semblance of a live orchestra and can’t find one.

The girl turns once, twice, and stumbles. 

“The trick to a pirouette is executing balance while in the midst of motion,” the Director says, keeping her eyes forward, but Marcus has the feeling that she’s got eyes all the way around her head. Good mothers always do. It’s one thing that they have in common with snipers. “Balance is the heart of ballet. It informs your mind, your body. Your way of life. Without balance, your life is worth nothing.” 

The girl is getting up. 

“Again.” 

One. Two. Stumble. Her left ankle goes, and Marcus is so used to hearing bone crack that he winces, as if the injury has too, impaled his own person. 

“Again.” 

The girl unfolds herself and Marcus has to close his eyes, “...You’ve made your fucking point. There’s an imbalance that you would like me to correct in the world so that people like you can keep on living. If it’s not John, then who is it?” 

“Who you think it is,” the Director turns her gaze from the stage, “Winston.” 

 

It takes an entire two weeks for Marcus to be able to limp outside into the public concrete right outside the Continental in Sydney. It is also the middle of June, which means that it is fucking freezing. 

“It’s cold.” 

“You’ve not seen sun for two weeks,” Winston says, “Don’t blame me for trying to keep you healthy.” 

“It’s _raining_ ,” Marcus retorts, balefully staring up at the nylon canopy above his head and the almost violent raindrops sliding down the side of the umbrella.

“What do you smell?” 

Marcus sucks in a breath. They’re standing upwind from a busy intersection, “Car exhaust, a lot of it. Sewage. All kinds of shit.” 

“That’s the smell of life,” Winston says. “It can be comforting if you let it.” 

 

It occurs to Marcus, that he’s always known what the Director was going to ask of him. Hearing it is like a dull twist in his large intestine, as if he has just consumed something unpleasant. 

“Winston.” 

“Yes.” 

“And for that, you’ll...what? Lift our excommunicado?” 

“That’s beyond my power to grant,” she shrugs. “But what I do know, is if you don’t do as I say, there are people waiting to put a bullet in your head the moment you step out of here. Do you remember Abbas and Elliot? They’ve abandoned their knives and picked up a gun. It doesn’t hurt that you’re worth triple the amount that S. Novick was.” 

“Are they accounting for inflation?” 

“Marcus,” John says. “You’re not seriously thinking of.” 

“Patricide is a way of life. It’s how things keep on living.” Marcus shrugs. “Consider it done.” 

 

The Continental feels like a tomb and Charon its eternal keeper. The man looks tired, like he hasn’t had any sleep in days. 

“Hello, Mr. Wick. Marcus. I trust you had a good holiday despite complications.’ 

John rolls his shoulders, “That is one way of putting it.” 

“I am to inform the Manager immediately upon your return. But as he has been entreating with an Adjudicator for the last few hours, he has asked not to be disturbed.” 

“He’s in the vault, isn’t he?” Marcus says. “He knows that someone’s coming for him.” 

“And who might that someone be? You?” 

Marcus turns at the sound of the familiar voice, and feels John pivot with him. Winston is there, with Ramsay plodding beside him and Winston is holding Daisy to his chest, as if that will protect him. (It does, but that’s not anything.) 

“Hello, Winston.” 

A slighter figure emerges behind Winston and even though Marcus has no idea who it is, he knows it’s the fabled Adjudicator. 

“Will you do what the Table demands?” says the Adjudicator, “Marcus Aurelius.” 

“I,” Marcus swallows. “Yes. But first I would like a drink.” 

“A drink sounds agreeable,” Winston nods. “Let’s go to the bar. You too, Jonathan.” 

 

The bar is all but empty except for one bartender, who pours them drinks without them having to ask for any. Bourbon for Marcus, whiskey for Winston and John. Then the bartender disappears. 

“I don’t want to do it.” Marcus says. “I lied for safe passage. I thought I could figure out -- something else. I just, I needed to see you, first.” 

Winston skims the top of his drink, “You should have thought it through.” 

“I didn’t.” Marcus stares at his drink. "Why do you always expect so much of me?" 

John says, “What happens if he doesn’t?” 

Winston closes his eyes, “If Marcus doesn't shoot me, then a number of things can come to pass. The hotel becomes deconsecrated, Enforcers come, perhaps less of them because of what Miss D’Antonio is waging in Italy, but the result will be the same.”

“We can _fight_ ,” John says, looking between them. “We can.” 

“Or you could just complete the task you were given, Marcus. Your impossible task.” From his jacket, Winston extracts a pistol. “Do you remember this?” 

“I do,” Marcus says, after a moment. “It’s the gun you handed me because you said I needed it. Does it still work?” 

“Try it and see,” Winston shrugs. 

The gun in his hands seems to slow down time. Marcus could have, out of a youthful cowardice that had so long ago incurred Winston’s wrath, taken the opportunity to shoot him in the head. But he doesn’t. He aims clear across the room, at an empty glass sitting on a table snug against the opposite wall. The glass shatters not seconds after Marcus squeezes the trigger. 

“As long as you understand, Winston. Someone has to take responsibility for this mess. This mess that you started. I could be obstinate about it, but that’s a young man’s game, too.”

Winston smiles, “There you go, my dear boy.” Which is funny because Marcus is thinking about retirement and no one has ever called him boy. “You can do it, if you remember everything I’ve ever taught you.” 

They both watch, as Winston drains his drink and moves from his chair. He stands with his feet planted firmly on the ground and his hands up, laced at the back of his head. 

“Don’t take things too personally,” Marcus swallows. “Have some perspective. Don’t be a dumb fucker. Uphold _Pax Romana_. Whatever the fuck that is. The Roman Peace. It is my cross to bear because no one else can carry it for me.” Marcus still doesn’t think he can do this. But he has faith. He’s had fealty. He has John Wick. Who used to be Jordani someone or the other but now he has faith and none of that matters.

“That’s right.” 

Marcus raises pistol and holds the barrel level to Winston’s head. “I love you.” 

“I know. So show me what you have learned.” 

“I don’t want to,” Marcus gulps air. “I can’t. I won’t. I’m a goddamn coward.” 

“But you must, and so you will,” Winston tells him. “I love you too.” 

“John,” Marcus says. “I have to do it. We can get out of here if I do. No bullshit.” 

John says, “I know. I won’t look away.” 

Marcus pulls the trigger. Once, twice, three times. He forces himself to look, as Winston’s blood seeps and sinks, deep into the patterned carpet of the Continental bar. 

 

Everything is water. Even the human body is sixty percent water. The brain clocks in at seventy-three percent, and even bone, makes it onto the list at thirty-one percent. So maybe Thales of Miletus isn’t completely full of shit. 

Marcus remembers that John professes to hate swimming, but the man doesn’t seem to mind running barefoot along the wet sandbanks with the last of the tide lapping at his ankles with Daisy sticking close and Ramsay bounding ahead. 

It is Ramsay who comes to him first, shoving his wet nose and then the rest of him (also in various degrees of damp) between Marcus’s knees. 

“Easy, boy.” 

“He wants you to come play,” John takes a seat next to him. "I think he's bored with me." 

Benidorm is somehow, not exactly as Marcus remembers it. For one thing, it seems quieter, marginally less shit. He has got John with him this time; everything else can fade into white noise, “I will. In a minute.” 

“Are you okay?” John asks. 

“I will be,” Marcus holds out his hand and John takes it, pressing into Marcus’s skin, the warm gold of his wedding ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I leave you with this, from Marcus Aurelius's _Meditations_ : "“Nothing happens to anybody which he is not fitted by nature to bear.”
> 
> And also: “Humans have come into being for the sake of each other, so either teach them, or learn to bear them.” Though there are others, these two aphorisms really helped form the ending of this fic.
> 
> That's a wrap for this series I think! Massive thank you to everyone for commenting, kudosing and reading along despite how self-indulgent this whole thing ended up getting.


End file.
